There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with unusual interest.  I said to Charley this would be one of the great Indiaman’s boats now, and we stopped to look.

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing about them as if they were glad to be in England again.  “Charley, Charley,” said I, “come away!” And I hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised.

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste.  In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognizing me.  I had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks.  I had been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed me.

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, “My dear, there is no reason—­there is and there can be no reason at all—­why it should be worse for you now than it ever has been.  What you were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better.  This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!” I was in a great tremble—­with running—­and at first was quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.

The party came to the hotel.  I heard them speaking on the staircase.  I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices again—­I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt’s.  It would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but I was determined not to do so.  “No, my dear, no.  No, no, no!”

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up—­I think I mean half down, but it matters very little—­and wrote on one of my cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt.  He came immediately.  I told him I was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England.  And I saw that he was very sorry for me.

“You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “but we can hardly call that a misfortune which enabled you to be so useful and so brave.  We read of it with the truest interest.  It first came to my knowledge through your old patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe illness.”

“Ah!  Little Miss Flite!” he said.  “She lives the same life yet?”

“Just the same.”

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to be able to put it aside.

“Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful.  She is a most affectionate creature, as I have reason to say.”

“You—­you have found her so?” he returned.  “I—­I am glad of that.”  He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.